


To Make a Great Flower out of Life

by Peasantaries



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Proffessional Jealousy, Wooing, Writer Katsuki Yuuri, Writer Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantaries/pseuds/Peasantaries
Summary: “Tell me what you want.” Viktor tries. “Anything, please tell me.”Yuuri swallows, and his expression changes. Softens sadly, transmutes like the quiet decay of fruit.“I want not to be jealous of you.” He says. “Just for a day. Or even a second.”Viktor blinks, stunned.OR, in which Yuuri’s idolisation of Viktor is a little less idolised and a little more realistic, they’re both famous poets in the twentieth century, and it’s Viktor’s turn to pine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is mainly written, and I'm tentatively posting the first chapter to see what you guys think!
> 
> It's really mostly self-indulgent, but it's something I think I've needed to write for a while, to remind myself I guess. 
> 
> I've both loved and hated writing, because it's brought me the most happiness and the most sadness I've ever felt in my life. I wrote a novel, poured years into it, and then was told it basically wasn't publishable by my editor. In retrospect, there were so many flaws in it I can see now, and my editor didn't say I myself was unpublishable, but it remains the biggest blow I've ever gotten.
> 
> For a while after, I couldn't write anything, but I think every writer struggles with this. Its a harsh love, but it's not one we chose, is it? I wanted to dedicate something to that love, an ode to writing if you will.

 

 

 

> _Who wants to become a writer, and why?_
> 
> _Because it’s the answer to everything. To “why am I here?” To uselessness._
> 
> _It’s the streaming reason for living._
> 
> _To note, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus._
> 
> \- Enid Bagnold

 

Viktor has just seen an angel.

Truly, an angel.

An exquisite creature of beauty and grace, belonging on the pages of Shakespeare’s rough drafts, written in a fit of passion and a burst of inspiration, painted on the walls of Michelangelo’s ceiling and proclaimed a masterpiece, a ‘stunning feat of mankind.’  

Even as Viktor thinks this, even as this _thought_  appears, Viktor is already composing his own sonnets inside his head, waxing lyrical about eyes, the kind slant of them, the dark warmth found within, the way they crinkled  _ever so_  at the corners.

 _Eyes that would make even the unwort_ – Viktor scraps that line, frustrated.  _The gods themsel_ – no use.

Words do nothing to capture this man’s beauty.

There’s one problem, though.

They’ve disappeared.

Viktor searches restlessly, scanning the crowds, the vacant faces and empty eyes, but the angel is nowhere to be found.

Just as Viktor has given up, just as his muse is beginning to slipp away, the memory of their beauty diminishing underneath Viktor’s desperately scrambling imagination, Viktor feels the breath stolen right out of his lungs and ripped from his throat as his feet pause, stilling, his body freezing on the spot.

There, in the low lights of the room and talking to the other guests.

He’s there.

He’s smiling, a soft kind of genial thing, half-genuine and half-untrue, but his eyes are sliding from the person he’s talking to and off to the side, glass held aloft in one hand.

And then they fall upon Viktor, as if fated to do so.

He blinks, and then simply stares, mouth parted.

Viktor stares back.

Then his feet are moving forward, rushing toward the young man.

“Hello.” Viktor breathes out as soon as he’s close enough, a flush riding high on his cheeks, stifling and hot underneath his collar. The music in the room is soft and filtering, a background noise that only some are dancing to, distracted as they talk, but Viktor still offers his hand, bowing.

“May I have this dance?” He grins, charming, and flicks some hair away from his face while he looks up.

The man stares, wordlessly, before a cold kind of emotion settles over his features, and he grips his glass tighter.

“No, you certainly may not.” He states, and then he whisks away in a flurry of coattails.

Viktor stands, agape.

And that’s how they meet.

Well. That’s how it begins.

 

*

 Viktor is adamant to find out what he’s done wrong.

“Excuse – excuse me!” He asks, tripping a little in his haste to keep up. “Have we met before?”

The angel turns with a cocked eyebrow, incredulity written all over his face. “No, of course not.”

It only leaves Viktor more confused.

“I’m – have I done something to offend you?” He tries, quickening his strides.

The angel – or rather, the  _man,_  as Viktor doesn’t think this angel would be pleased to hear the thoughts inside his head – simply stops short.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He asks.

Viktor stops as well. “I don’t, I’m afraid.” He tries to lace as much regret into his tone as one can muster in the face of such startlingly vivid eyes.

“My name is Yuuri Katsuki.”

Viktor freezes.

Yuuri’s mouth ticks, just slightly. “I see that got your attention.”

Viktor stares.  _“You’re_  – the author –”

Yuuri holds his arms out, playful. “In the flesh.”

Viktor is aghast. “You’re so –  _young.”_

“I might say the same for yourself.” Yuuri replies.

Viktor’s mind is reeling, his pulse beating hard in the back of his throat, because this man,  _this man_  – is his _rival_.

“I expected you to be much older.” Viktor confesses, after a moment.

Yuuri swallows. “I expected the same.” He says, and then clears his throat. “Well, I should be going.”

“What – wait, I haven’t –” Viktor flushes. “I want – I wish to get to know you.” He settles on.

Yuuri blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I – we can’t part like this, surely you must feel – the same connection –” Viktor tries, almost frantic in his desperation.

“Connection?” Yuuri asks, eyebrows rising to newfound heights.

Even as Viktor feels embarrassment sting his cheeks, he carries on. “I – possibly not the same, but I wouldn’t want to leave things like this –”

 _“Things?”_  Yuuri asks. “Mr. Nikiforov, I think you’ve gathered quite the wrong idea –”

“I – I understand you might not be partial to me at the moment, Yuuri, but we’ve possibly started off on the wrong foot –”

“Really, I must be going –” Yuuri begins, backing away.

“I – come to my house, we can talk, discuss poetry! –” Viktor babbles.

Yuuri huffs a laugh, a hand stretched out to keep Viktor away. “I really would rather not –”

“Please, or agree to meet me, we can lunch anywhere you wish –”

“Mr. Nikiforov –”

“Tell me what you want.” Viktor tries. “Anything, please tell me.”

Yuuri swallows, pauses, and then his expression changes. Softens sadly, transmutes like the quiet decay of fruit.

“I want not to be jealous of you.” He states. “Just for a day. Or even a second.”

Viktor blinks, stunned.

Yuuri watches him for a moment, and then he smiles.

“Good day, Viktor.” He says, and tips his head before he leaves.

 

*

Viktor Nikiforov hasn’t gotten to where he is today by simply giving up.

He finds Yuuri’s address rather easily.

In all their years of rivalry, it’s a strange thing that Viktor has never visited him, even out of simple curiosity.

Yuuri Katsuki is a famous poet, the state of his whereabouts is not hard to obtain, despite the fact that he’s not written anything in nearly three years.

Viktor stands outside his family estate, gloves held in both hands, clasped in front of him, and waits.

Yuuri looks rather underwhelmed to see him, to say the least.

“Mr. Nikiforov.” He begins, exasperation bleeding into his tone.

“Mr. Katsuki.” Viktor bows gracefully, and then straightens.

“Did you want something?” Yuuri asks.

“The pleasure of your company.” Viktor says, and beams.

Yuuri looks unamused.

Well then.

This is slightly off-putting.

Viktor clears his throat. “I –”

“Yuuri, you didn’t say you were expecting guests!” A woman suddenly appears, coming up to Viktor with a wide grin and taking his arm. “Come in, please!”

“Mother, really –” Yuuri tries.

Viktor is pulled along into an expansive dining room, and feels his eyes widen as he takes in the grandeur; the low hanging chandeliers, the large oak table.

“I think Mr. Nikiforov was just leaving –” Yuuri starts.

“Nikiforov?” The woman says, and swivels around.  _“Viktor_  Nikiforov?”

“Why, yes, that would be me.” Viktor says, and ducks his head bashfully.

Yuuri is standing with his arms crossed, watching the exchange with a tight jaw.

The woman’s eyes widen. “Well, then, take a seat!” She gestures. “Please, sit down, we were just about to have something to eat.” She looks significantly towards a butler, standing by the door.

He quickly exits at the glance.

Viktor sits, rather stiltedly, and Yuuri joins, although it looks as if he would truly rather be doing anything else.

“You can call me Hiroko, I always find Ms. Katsuki so formal.” Hiroko laughs then, a warm sound that brightens the air, and Viktor smiles.

“So, I take it you’re the renowned poet that’s been driving Yuuri up the wall?” She asks.

 _“Mother.”_  Yuuri hisses.

She simply waves a hand. “Oh, I think all this rivalry stuff is childish, if you ask me.”

 _“Thank you.”_  Viktor begins strongly. “I, too, feel the same, and was coming to ask your son if he might like for us to get to know one another, and put our past behind us.”

“How lovely!” Hiroko exclaims, and claps her hands. “I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“I really don’t have the time –” Yuuri tries.

“Nonsense!” Hiroko says, turning to her son. “No time to simply chat?”

“Precisely.” Viktor states, just as a young woman enters.

“Mother, do we have to go –” she begins, but stops as soon as she sees Viktor.

“Oh, I didn’t know we had guests.” She says, disinterested.

“Mari, this is Viktor Nikiforov.” Hiroko begins, smiling at Viktor.

Viktor offers her a beam, but is met with a raised eyebrow and a glance toward Yuuri, who simply rolls his eyes in return.

Viktor flushes, feeling rather the butt of some joke, only not a very kind one.

But then Mari is sitting on the settee at the window across from the table, bending down to her feet as she sighs. “I tell you, these shoes.” She grumbles, unlacing them and slipping them off.

“Mari!” Hiroko gasps. “We have company!”

“I really don’t –” Viktor begins.

“What?” She asks. “It’s  _feet.”_

“It’s indecent.” Hiroko hisses. “You’re  _barefoot,_  your ankles are showing.”

“I honestly –” Viktor tries, but Mari is going to put her shoes back on with a grimace.

“You know, I hardly ever wear these shoes.” Viktor says, and then takes off his loafers, which have admittedly been hurting his heels since he stepped into them. “And they’re killing me.”

The whole family are staring, as Viktor sets his shoes down.

“And I’m fed up with these socks too.” He states, and then he’s barefoot as well.

Mari gapes. And then she laughs.

She just tips her head back, laughing long and low, and then she looks at Yuuri. “I like him!” She proclaims.

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, staring at Viktor in something like surprise and something else. Something Viktor has never seen before.

 

*

Most embarrassingly, Viktor has to ask for the directions toward the restroom, which is upstairs, but as soon as he’s actually upstairs, he finds himself quite at a loss.

There are so many  _rooms,_  so many corridors and corners. He’d been given a list of lefts and rights, but he’s utterly forgotten their order, and so it’s as he’s searching through them that he comes across it.

The door is lying open, so Viktor pushes it slight and hopes, only to be met with what appears to be a study room.

A private study room.

The room is smaller than the rest, shelves filled to the brim with leather-bound books and glossy spines.

Viktor steps inside almost instinctually, entranced, fingers skimming across the worn, dusty covers, when he stops, footsteps slowing.

There’s a plain, black journal, left on top of the others, half-way hidden and pushed there.

Viktor doesn’t know what possesses him to pick it up, but it falls open easily, the pages crinkled with years of age.

 _I will always love writing. I will always love writing, even if writing may not always love me,_ the first page reads.

Viktor stares, stares at those words, at the aching longing within them.

He turns the page.

_You will get there. I know you will. One day you will be there and you’ll stand on that spot and know how far you’ve walked._

_Your feet will ache, your body will be tired, but you’ll know that you kept going to make it to where you’re standing now._

_It’s alright to be jealous. It’s alright to feel burning, acidic pain at someone else’s success. It’s okay to accept that where they are is where you want to be. It’s alright to know that they’re better than you. It’s alright to question why._

_God knows it’s better than letting it twist you inside and out and into someone you don’t recognise._

_Stop looking at them as something to be feared._

_Stop looking at them as something to hate._

_Look at them as someone who’s worked so hard, who’s fought and cried and felt the same as you._

_Nobody is where they are for nothing._

_Live a little easier. Take what you have and be so happy with it._

_You've done things with your life. Just because those things aren’t as famous as others, doesn’t mean they’re not as good._

Viktor’s eyes are stinging as he reads over the words, throat tight and constricting as he skims over the quickly scrawled lines.

Is this the reason for Katsuki’s long absence in the world of poetry? People have speculated that he’s been suffering from writer’s block, that his inspiration has run dry and he has nothing left to say.

It’s clear that Yuuri has everything to say. Viktor is holding it in his hands.

_Give yourself time._

_You can still change the bedding of your words. You can still wash the sheets. It can still smell like something new._

_Something fresh, something exciting._

_It just takes some time._

Viktor hears noise outside the room, the creaking of floorboards underneath feet, and so he snaps the journal shut and stuffs it back into its hiding place before picking up some nondescript novel and flipping it open.

He pretends to be engrossed in the words, frowning hard, when Yuuri appears at the doorway.

“Did you get lost?” He asks, although there’s something amused in his voice.

Viktor swallows, his throat tight, and looks at the man in front of him.

His hair is a little tousled, which suggests his hands have been through it, but it makes him appear softer, a little more worn at the edges.

His eyes are that same warm brown of before, but Viktor feels as if he knows them a little better now.

“Yes.” He manages, at last. “It looks like you’ve rescued me.”

Yuuri smiles, and nods.

“Will you walk with me?” Viktor asks, before he can help it.

Yuuri blinks. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” Viktor replies.

Yuuri gazes at him, and then he holds a long arm out, swivelling it around. “Lead the way.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is just a little over a week after the last chapter, and I do want to update weekly, but as I can't currently promise every week on the dot, I've simply put weekly/fortnightly. I can probably say it won't be every two weeks, but it'll be within that time frame!

They walk in the gardens.

The Katsuki estate truly is a beautiful one, and Viktor finds himself admiring the scenery, gazing around in wonder at the trees, at the cloudless sky, until they stop at a lake and Yuuri suddenly sits, crossing his legs into a basket.

Viktor follows suit.

“I used to come here as a child.” He smiles, face tipped toward the sun, coming through the branches. “I still do, when I want to write.”

“But you haven’t published anything.” Viktor frowns, despite himself. “In years.” _Has he been writing in secret?_

Yuuri smiles, but it’s tight. “Nothing I write anymore is publishable.” He whispers.

That makes Viktor’s chest hurt. “How do you know that?”

Yuuri turns away, back to the lake. “Because I do. I read my work, and then read others, and I know.” He murmurs. “I read your work, and I feel ashamed.” Yuuri admits, and swallows. “I’m not worthy of being called a writer.”

Viktor is silent.

“Why do you write?” Viktor asks him suddenly.

Yuuri blinks, thrown, and then his mouth parts slightly, as if searching for the words. 

“You’ll almost always find the answer isn’t for money, or fame, or even validation.” Viktor begins. “You want those things, yes, _crave_ them, ache for them, maybe even cry for them, but that’s still not why you write.” He pauses, looking at Yuuri. “You write to feel something. To _make_ something. To create. Because you _have_ to write. You write, Yuuri,” Viktor says, _“because_ you are a writer.”

Yuuri stares at him, and Viktor watches as water, slow as the sunrise, behind to well inside his eyes. 

And then he coughs a laugh, turning away and ducking his head.

“Thank you.” Yuuri says, his voice a little thick, a little sore and aching. “I think I needed that.”

Viktor knows he did. He knows.

“I get so caught up in looking above, sometimes, I forget to see what’s right in front of me.” Yuuri huffs, eyes downturned toward the grass.

Viktor, suddenly ignited, reaches forward and takes Yuuri’s jaw in his hand, forcing his eyes to meet Viktor’s.

 _“Stop it._ Stop looking up there.” Viktor states, his eyes blazing into Yuuri’s. “You have to stop, Yuuri. It’s eating away at you.”

“I don’t know how to.” Yuuri croaks. “How can I? How can you?”

“Because then it becomes endless!” Viktor cries, letting go to wave an arm out. “You could look up there forever!”

Yuuri chuckles then, a barely there, soft sound, but Viktor turns away.

“See? You might be, for some reason, looking up at me, but then I’m looking up to you, and Yeats, and Byron, and they’re looking up to Shakespeare, or each other, and yet he’s looking up to some other dead poet, someone we’ve probably never stopped to wonder about, and it could go on and on and on –” Viktor suddenly feels as if his point isn’t being made clear enough with words, and so decides to flop onto his back and start rolling across the grass.

“And on and on and on –” he’s saying, tumbling sideways, and then he can really hear the sound of Yuuri’s laughter, lighter than air and more musical than a birdsong in the brisk morning.

“Viktor!” Yuuri cries, rushing after him lest he tumble right into the lake, and Viktor stops just in time for Yuuri to topple and fall right over him.

He’s still laughing, his shirt grass-stained and dirty, rucked up and half coming out of his slacks, and his hair is coming undone too, one black strand falling to curl across his forehead.

“And on.” Viktor finishes, swallows, and reaches up to brush the hair away. 

Yuuri pauses, still grinning, looking down to look at him with that grin still caught on his face, and Viktor thinks, _you are art itself. Nothing could recreate or recapture the way you yourself soften those edges if your mouth, to smile down at me a little less brightly, a little more self-consciously, than before._

“I really don’t think I should be as popular as Shakespeare, and wonder why I’m not.” Yuuri informs him warmly.

Viktor tilts his head on the grass theatrically, widening his eyes. “Speak for yourself! I should think I’m as famous!”

And Yuuri’s laugh really is birdsong then.

Something that belongs in poetry, or at least, something that should be heard by poets more capable of words than him. 

“Some days.” Yuuri begins, still with laughter in his voice. “Some days I think I’ll never write another word.” He confesses, and stares straight into Viktor’s eyes. “I tell myself I won’t. I’ll stop today, and today will be the day I leave writing. For all the pain and sorrow it’s brought me, I’ll give myself some rest.” Yuuri’s eyes soften, sadden. “And other days, I feel as if I have the whole world inside me to write, and I’ll burst if I don’t let it out.”

“Yuuri.” Viktor begins deeply, his voice rough and catching with emotion. “Let me tell you something. Let me tell you so that you’ll hear it.” He clenches his jaw, swallows hard, and rises up onto his elbows to hold Yuuri’s gaze. _“Every writer_ feels this. Every single one.”

Yuuri simply looks at him. “Even you?” He asks softly.

 _“Especially_ me.” Viktor tells him fiercely.

Yuuri’s smile is slow to come on, but once it starts to spread, it’s brighter than all the rest of them. “For some reason, I can’t quite see it.” He murmurs, but his eyes are curious.

Viktor sits up, glancing out into the lake. “You know, when the review came out, of your first poetry collection, I remember ripping the newspaper to shreds.” He doesn’t look at Yuuri, not while he’s confessing this.

“My collection had been released a few days before, and yours was already receiving better praise.” Viktor smiles, softly, down at the grass. “But then I remember I went out and bought the collection, and I realised why.” He clears his throat. “In truth, Yuuri Katsuki, you inspired me more than I can say, with the way you captured those words and made them into something else. It’s why I dedicated my next work to you, and addressed you as ‘my rival’.” Viktor huffs, feeling his cheeks heat at admitting this to the man himself.

“In my mind, it was more of a playful gesture, and one I intended for you to take as a compliment, of sorts, as I did dedicate my work to you.” Viktor smiles. “I hoped you would see how much my words had been influenced by your poetry. But in the end, the public took it to mean something more, and alas, well – here we are.”

Viktor looks up, smile still on his face, to find Yuuri staring, mouth open but no sound escaping.

“So much of being a writer is the pain of finding someone who can write better.” Viktor finds himself saying, in the face of Yuuri’s shock. “But then, there’s a strange joy in finding someone who can write better, because once that pain fades, clears enough for you to be able to read, you find a beauty in the words, and one that inspires you, improves your own writing.”

Yuuri swallows. He glances down at the grass, and then back up, seemingly at a loss. “I – I don’t know what to say.” He breathes out, a soft exhalation. “I never knew you felt that way.”

“No.” Viktor laughs. “I suppose not. You must have been confused, and then once the newspapers proclaimed it as some kind of declaration of war, just took it as that.”

Yuuri huffs a laugh. “Well, I do admit, I was rather confused by, _‘for Mr. Katsuki, my rival’_ , from a famous poet I had never even met.”

Viktor laughs, feeling lighter. “I didn’t have a dedication! Nobody to dedicate it to. You had inspired so much of those poems, I felt it almost – _cheating_ not to mention you.”

“Viktor.” Yuuri says, and laughs. “I have to say, this is probably the biggest compliment I’ve ever been given, although it didn’t actually feel that way at the time.”

“I can imagine.” Viktor laughs too.

Yuuri smiles at him, and then he glances away. “I don’t – I’ve never had friends who are writers.” He pauses, swallows. “I’ve found it’s too hard.” He frowns then. “I don’t want to jealous of friends. I don’t want to feel bitter over my friends.”

Viktor furrows his brow. “You don’t have to be.”

“I have been.” Yuuri says, and glances up then. He smiles, but it’s more pained. "Viktor, I have been. It burns me, to congratulate them on successes that I’ve wanted for myself.”

“But doesn’t that motivate you?” Viktor tries.

Yuuri takes a while to answer. “I don’t think I thrive on adversity.” He says, after a moment. “I don’t think I thrive on the need to prove critics wrong, to beat another writer. Those things are the things that make me question being a writer at all. That make me question my ability to write. I can’t lift a pen after a bad review. I thrive on compliments, and praise, and yes – validation.” Yuuri chuckles, self-conscious. “Those things make me enjoy writing, make me _want_ to write. I’m not sure if that makes me juvenile, inexperienced, or just less of a writer than those that can write through a storm. Through pain and failure, through criticism, through anything.”

“It doesn’t make you anything less, Yuuri.” Viktor says, throat sore. “Your ability to handle pain doesn’t determine your quality of writing.”

Yuuri looks off to the lake for a long time. Then he turns back. “Thank you. Come.” He stands up, dusts his front. “We should probably get back.”

Viktor feels oddly bereft, as if he’s been shut out. “Alright.” He murmurs.

 

*

It’s a quiet walk back, but not a long one.

It feels long, however, as the silence stretches on with every step.

Viktor is just about to take his leave, to make his kind excuses and tip his metaphorical hat, until Hiroko catches sight of them.

“Viktor!” She says. “I had wondered where you two got. Come, dinner is just being put out.”

“I really should –”

“Oh, come!” She motions. “I really should feed my guests before they leave, it’s bad manners not to.” She steps close to Viktor, taking his arm. “And bad luck.” She whispers.

Viktor finds himself smiling, and leads her into the dining hall.

The table has already been set, delicate cutlery placed in neat rows, and Viktor feels his eyes widen as he takes a seat.

Despite what being what some might call a ‘revered’ poet of the 20th century, Viktor can’t remember the last time he witnessed such grandeur and elegance. Yuuri’s cheeks are suspiciously red as he sits down, seemingly realising the effort his family has put in.

“Really, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble –” Viktor starts, embarrassed. Surely, they can’t think he expects this of them?

“Nonsense!” Hiroko waves a hand. “It’s nothing!”

“It’s – it’s beautiful.” Viktor starts, feeling rather chocked up.

As Mari joins them, and Mr. Katsuki introduces himself as _‘Toshiya, please’_ , beaming wide, and woman called Minako breezes in and takes Viktor’s hand, the room filling with all these strangers, Viktor also finds he can’t remember the last time he saw so many people around one single dinner table.

Of course, he’s been invited to many banquets and parties, but it’s been a long time since he’s seen – _a family,_ just a family, people inhabiting the same space, who are so used to one another’s company that they move around each other with ease, with familiarity.

His parents had passed so long ago, they’re not often at the forefront of his mind, but seeing the image presented to him, Viktor finds that they’re right there, right here beside him.

His throat feels tight, constricted, but he accepts the food with grace and smiles.

There’s a comfortable silence for a while, as everyone eats.

“I think we need some music.” Mari states, sudden.

“I think we’re perfectly fine –” Toshiya begins.

Mari is already up and crossing over to the record player, and she fiddles for a moment before music is filtering through the little machine, filling up the room.

“Oh, I do love this song.” Hiroko murmurs, and Yuuri smiles over to her.

He stands as soon as the lyrics begins, and his mother laughs as he pulls her up, taking her by the hands and swaying as he sings the words to her.

 _“When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother,”_ Yuuri echoes, the lyrics filtering into the room, _“what will I be? Will I be pretty, will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me –”_

Viktor is grinning as he watches them, but then suddenly everyone is joining, standing up from their seats and beginning to dance to the song on the record player.

Minako takes Mari into her arms and begins to waltz around the room, while Toshiya laughs and enters the little circle.

 _“Que sera, sera!”_ Yuuri is singing, his smile fond and warm. _“Whatever will be, will be!”_

Their eyes meet across the room and Yuuri blinks in surprise to see him still sitting.

“Viktor! Join!” He says, motioning, and Viktor’s cheeks heat at being invited, but he ducks his head.

“I – I really can’t –” Viktor begins weakly, only Yuuri is striding across and forcing him up with strong hands on his arms.

“Come! Now!” Yuuri demands, and then Viktor’s in his arms.

_When I grew up, and fell in love,_

_I asked my sweetheart_

_What lies ahead?_

Yuuri laughs, spins him in a circle, his feet light and dancing on the wooden floorboards. _“Que sera, sera!”_ He sings, smiling bright. _“Whatever will be, will be! The future’s not ours to see!”_ He raises an eyebrow, grin still in place. _“Que sera, sera.”_

Viktor laughs, footsteps fumbling as he tries to keep pace, his hands damp and heated in Yuuri’s gloved ones.

But Yuuri simply dances, careless and carefree, still laughing, and spins Viktor under his arm again as he spins Viktor’s carefully balanced life into disarray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the silly song, but it's also lovely, and also inspired a lot of this story: [Que Sera, Sera ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcWbZUgymkw)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologise for the delay in updates, and promise that this story is written! I hope to update this one sometime next week, as I have a few other fics I would like to get an update out for, but it will happen! All my fics, one way or another, will be completed.

And so, Viktor Nikiforov comes to a decision.

He is going to Woo Yuuri Katsuki.

He has a plan. It’s fool proof.

(It’s not fool proof, not in the slightest, it mainly consists of pestering him until he gives in and is forced to admit that Viktor is now a staple in his life, but it’s something. It’s a start.)

It’s been a week, however, and he’s getting nowhere.

Even Yuuri’s family are beginning to notice his slight obsession, as Viktor comes every other day with a jaunty grin and a, ‘ _Yuuri wouldn’t possibly be around, would he?’_

One morning, however, as Hiroko opens the door and her expression softens in that familiar way it does as soon as she catches sight of him, she takes his wrist and pulls him into the sitting room.

“Let me guess?” She asks. “Here to see Yuuri?”

Viktor swallows, suddenly nervous.

“I’ll call for some tea.” She says, and then sits down next to him.

“I think I have some idea of what you’re trying to do.” Hiroko tells him, and Viktor gulps.

“I – I really –” he stammers.

“You’re trying to make him fall in love with you, aren’t you?” She asks.

Viktor stops short.

Hiroko laughs. “Oh, darling. Love isn’t just something that happens! It takes time. You can’t expect Yuuri to change in the space of a week.”

“But – but if I knew what I was doing _wrong –”_ Viktor begins.

“You’ll know, when he loves you.” Hiroko says, a soft smile on her face. “Yuuri is the kindest person you’ll ever meet. He buys me flowers sometimes, just because they remind him of me.” She laughs then, and shakes her head. “You know, his friend Yuuko was preforming at a play once, and he went over _an hour_ early.” She chuckles. “He just sat there, and when I arrived and asked him why in the heavens he came so early, he told me he wanted her to see him in the front row.”

Viktor looks down, unable to reply. His throat feels tight, constricting.

“It’ll come, in time.” Hiroko says, and places her hand over his. “I know it will. I see it, sometimes, when he looks at you.”

Viktor latches onto that like a survivor at sea to a piece of driftwood, desperately grappling. “What it is you see?”

“It’s something – changing in him.” She replies.

Viktor can’t much make sense of that, but then she huffs and points over to the window.

Viktor stands, crosses over and looks out.

Yuuri is walking in the gardens, fingers brushing the grass. He has his trousers rolled up to his ankles. He’s barefoot.

 

*

It comes to Viktor, suddenly, sometime during the second week.

The one thing that’s missing, the one thing always described in love letters and poetry.

A kiss.

Viktor and Yuuri haven’t kissed. How can they possibly know how they feel about one another if they _haven’t kissed?_ Surely a kiss reveals all, surely a kiss reveals the deepest, darkest secret desires of the heart, desires that one might have pushed away and ignored?

Viktor has decided. He has to kiss Yuuri.

There’s no other way to go about it.

But Viktor doesn’t want it to be a _non-consensual_ kiss, as that would simply come as a bit of an unwelcome shock, and Yuuri would most like grow flustered and agitated and push him off.

No.

Viktor has to somehow politely ask if he can kiss Yuuri.

And so, it’s during his visit to the estate, when Yuuri and Viktor are having lunch, that he asks Yuuri if they can speak in his private rooms.

“Of course.” Yuuri says, and leads the way.

Viktor follows.

It’s only as Yuuri is standing, expectant, eyebrows raised and expression patient, that Viktor realises he actually has to articulate it in some way.

“I – I have a proposition I would like to make you.” Viktor states grandly, although he's feeling anything but grand.

Yuuri blinks. “Alright.”

“I will give you my journal, complete with poems I’ve been working on over the year, to keep.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide, incredulous.

“You can do what you want with them. Take them as your own. Recreate them. Why, you could even burn them!” Viktor laughs, a bit manic.

Yuuri is staring. “And what do you ask in return?”

Viktor straightens. “One kiss.”

Yuuri blinks. “Is that all?”

It’s Viktor’s turn to blink. He thought Yuuri might be more – well, _surprised_ that this.

Viktor swallows, and nods. “Well. Due to the fact this is partial to subjectivity, I’ve decided to ask for one minute.”

“One minute – of kissing?” Yuuri clarifies.

“Precisely.” Viktor states.

“Alright then.” Yuuri says easily.

Viktor is frozen. “I’ve changed my mind.” He starts, gripped by sudden fear that it might not be enough, it might _not work._ “I’ve decided to request two minutes.”

“You most certainly will not.” Yuuri tells him, affronted.

Viktor blinks. “Well then.” He says. “One minute it is.”

“Now?” Yuuri asks, looking down at his wristwatch.

Viktor blinks. Then he freezes again. His heart jolts inside his chest, because he’s really – it’s really going to happen –

“Wait!” Viktor cries, a little shrill despite the fact that Yuuri has made no move forward. “I’m not ready!”

Yuuri holds up both hands. “In your own time.”

Viktor takes a calming breath.

Yuuri steps closer, and Viktor feels his heart jolt, his palms heat and begin to sweat.

“I’m not doing anything.” Yuuri has his hands held up, a surrender, as he puts one foot gently in front of the other. “I’m just moving closer.”

Viktor nods, this throat too tight and hurting to even speak.

Yuuri’s eyes are crinkled in amusement as he looks at Viktor, in careless carefree feeling, and Viktor thinks – _well, now or never. It’s not as if prolonging it will make a difference._

Of course, it would make a difference to Viktor if he could prolong it. But not to Yuuri.

A kiss is a kiss, but Viktor has to know.  He _has_ to.

Viktor swoops down and presses his mouth to Yuuri’s.

Nothing happens.

There’s no fantastic climax, no swell of music. There’s just the soft pressure of Yuuri’s lips against his, the puff of air from his nostrils.

Isn’t a kiss supposed to be electrifying, monumental? Aren’t sparks supposed to be racing down his spine, isn’t his heart supposed to be speeding?

Viktor has never actually kissed another human being before, and so he’s rather unsure of the protocol, but unless the rest of the entire _world population_ are lying, Viktor expected – a bit more than this.

Viktor’s Great Plan consisted of kissing Yuuri Katsuki, and hopefully, Yuuri would have one of those experiences talked about in poems written by lovers who have some kind of knowledge in this field, described in novels by the woman roughly taken astride and handled passionately – Yuuri’s eyes would finally open to the feelings he’s been harbouring for Viktor the whole time, he would gasp and realise he’s loved Viktor all along.

Viktor feels nothing other than nausea in the pit of his stomach, a clenching in his chest, and the softness of Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri, Viktor thinks, probably feels nothing other than a foreign press of lips to his.

Gripped by desperation, Viktor steps closer into Yuuri’s space, and lifts a hand to tilt Yuuri’s cheek up.

He presses his mouth, and presses his mouth, and _presses_ , and still, Yuuri does nothing, and Viktor feels tears well up in his eyes as he keeps pressing his mouth to Yuuri’s, trying to angle his head differently, trying to soften his mouth, to kiss differently, to be _better_.

Viktor pulls back, wild eyes searching Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri blinks, nonplussed. “I don’t think that was a minute.” He says.

“It’s no use!” Viktor cries, and throws his hands up. He turns away. “It didn’t work!”

Yuuri’s laugh is weak and confused. “What – what did you expect?”

“I just thought!” Viktor starts, and pauses. “It was supposed to make you fall in love with me.”

The admission is soft, but still Yuuri blinks, and then he’s laughing – _really_ laughing.

“Viktor, a kiss can’t do that!” He shouts, shaking his head.

“Well, then what will!” Viktor booms.

There’s a beat of silence, in which they both just look at one another.

“Nothing.” Yuuri tells him. “Nothing, Viktor. I don’t love you. You’re my friend, nothing more.”

Viktor stares. He just stares, numbed, unfeeling. And then he starts toward the door.

He walks, and doesn’t turn around, not until he’s at the door.

And then he reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his journal.

He sets it on the table, and opens his mouth.

“I don’t think I even _could_ love you.” Yuuri murmurs, almost contemplative, voice quiet. “When I’ve hated you for so long.”

Viktor pauses. 

He just pauses, stills at the doorway, and feels the rushing tide of agony sweep right through him. The crashing waves crest inside his throat, making it impossible to swallow. 

“I don’t think I know how to hate you.” Viktor murmurs thickly, fingers resting on the doorknob. “When I’ve loved you the moment I saw you.”

Viktor doesn’t turn. He doesn’t glance backwards. 

He simply opens the door and leaves. 

 

*

He receives the knock in the early hours of the morning.

Viktor is awake, because of course he’s still awake, he’s a _poet,_ Christ sake, when his front door is suddenly being knocked.

Rather _urgently,_ he might add.

Viktor rushes to open it, and finds none other than Yuuri Katsuki, standing in the rain without even so much as a coat, his hair dripping from the spring showers. 

“Hello!” Viktor says, raising his voice slightly over the downpour. 

Yuuri’s eyes are startlingly wide and bright against his damp, flattened hair, the sun barely peeking out over the horizon, casting him in pale light even as the wind hails and storms. 

“I’ve come to tell you something!” Yuuri shouts, and then squints strongly as a gust of wind brings with it a fresh wave of rain, slapping him right across the cheek.

Viktor’s mouth opens to let him inside, but then finds his fingers tightening on the door, unwilling. 

Unwilling, and afraid.

“Yes?” He calls.

Yuuri looks away, his eyelashes clumping together wetly, and blinks a few times. “I!” He starts, but doesn’t finish.

Then he’s smiling, a smile that starts just a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, until it blooms across the sides of his face, splitting it apart in a beam. With the shine of the sun on one side of his face, it almost looks like a blossoming flower.

“I’ve just discovered!” Yuuri laughs, wet teeth shining in the rain. “That I don’t quite hate you at all!”

Viktor blinks.

“Well then!” He calls back, rather at a loss. 

“I don’t think I hate you even a little!” Yuuri carries on, as if he’s surprised by this. “I don't even dislike you!”

Viktor holds the door with one hand, still too afraid to let go. “What changed your mind?” He shouts.

“I can’t say I know!” Yuuri laughs again. “You see, I simply had a thought – I imagined you feeling wretched, and it didn’t make me happy at all. No, it made me miserable!” He shakes his head to rid it of some rain, still laughing. “And then I remembered you taking your shoes off at the dinner table – your shoes and your socks!” He cries, almost doubling over. “And I realised, Viktor Nikiforov, I don’t think I’ve ever truly hated you!”

Viktor hardly knows what to do with himself. “Did you read the poems?” He shout-asks.

Yuuri blinks. “All three of them?”

It’s Viktor’s turn to blink. He does so, slowly. “Pardon me?”

“All three, in the book you left me?” Yuuri tilts his head.

Viktor is stiff, frozen, before he starts to pat himself down and.

Yes. 

He gave Yuuri the wrong book.

Of course he did. Because his personal diary is in his house, and the one he gave Yuuri – the forgotten notebook he wrote a few poems in before he lost – was in his _pocket_. 

“I gave you the wrong one!” Viktor cries.

“What?” Yuuri scrunches his face up, the rain beating down upon him hard now.

“The wrong one!” Viktor cries louder, and then he shakes his head and opens the door wider. “Just come inside!”

Yuuri grins, a bright and beautiful thing, and jumps the steps before he’s shaking his wet hair out and stepping inside.

It makes Viktor’s throat tight, the sight of him. This playful, playing side to him. Makes Viktor _ache_. 

“This one is the one I meant to give you.” Viktor says, and lifts the journal from his bedside table. Goodness, he was _writing_ in it before Yuuri came, just how dense is he?

Yuuri blinks, and then he beams. 

“Viktor, I find I don’t have a use for it anymore.”

Viktor pauses.

Yuuri laughs. “I don’t need it! Keep it.”

“Yuuri.” Viktor takes Yuuri’s hands and folds the small notebook inside them. “You don’t understand. Take it, and read it.”

Yuuri’s eyes are large, large and uncomprehending.

“Please.” Viktor begs, because he _needs_ Yuuri to know. “Please read them, and even if you don’t return the sentiments within the poetry, please – please know that every word is not contrived, not strung together, not meant to rhyme. Every word is true.”

“Alright.” Yuuri says, and pockets the notebook. “Might I borrow some rooms for the night? Terrible weather.” He grins.

Viktor swallows, and nods. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this took me a good hour to post because the format decided to be cute and put symbols in-between every apostrophe and speech mark. Every. Single. One.
> 
> On another note, finally the end! It's taken a lot longer than I had imagined, with various health issues and such, but it's finally here and I'm so happy to be posting the end and bringing a close to the story! I hope you enjoy <33

When Yuuri comes downstairs in the morning, towelling his still wet-hair and smiling sheepishly as he enters Viktor's small kitchen, Viktor can't help imagining the situation in different circumstances.

Can't help but imagine what it might be like to wake up like this every morning, to wake with the knowledge that Yuuri is just coming from upstairs, from _their room_ , and then see him entering at the doorway, sleep-ruffled and still so painfully beautiful - a word Viktor usually loathes to use, usually avoids in every walk of life, but there's truly no other word for Yuuri, so 'beautiful' will have to do - and Yuuri will walk right up close and tuck himself into Viktor's side soft and snug, and Viktor will sigh and turn around -

"Viktor?" Yuuri's head falls to the side, blinking owlishly.

"Hm?" Viktor blinks, and realises he had stopped in the middle of his kitchen.

"Thank you, by the way." Yuuri begins, and produces Viktor's journal from behind him. "They are lovely."

The poems in that journal are terrible. Truly terrible. Viktor knows it's not his best work, not his most perfected form, but he does know the words inside those pages are the truest he's ever written.

To read them back, however, to rediscover those early feelings Viktor harboured, to watch them grow and shape into the ones he keeps today. It's much too painful. He would rather Yuuri keep it. He inspired the words, after all.

"Thank you." Viktor nods, a formality. He's stiff and unsure.

Yuuri's eyes sadden. "Viktor, I don't want anything to change between us -"

Viktor waves a careless hand, going to open his mouth, but Yuuri steps forward.

"I mean it. I wish for us to remain friends, I would hate to lose your company." There's something almost desperate in his tone. "Of every other writer I've spoken with, every writer I've ever _known,_ I feel you're the only one who hasn't either boasted in my face or tried to understand my insecurities in order to fix them. I can - I can _speak_ with you Viktor, and not just about writing. I feel about anything. Don't you feel the same?"

 _Yes,_ Viktor wants to tell him _. That's precisely the problem._ All he manages is a weak nod and a cough to clear his otherwise clogged throat.

Relief seems to flood Yuuri's features. "Will you come a walk with me?" He asks.

It's an echo of one of their earliest encounters, after Viktor had found Yuuri's secret poems. He was probably in trouble from as early on as then. It probably all started the moment Viktor looked at Yuuri Katsuki.

Viktor simply nods, and gathers his jacket. "Where?" He asks. It looks a cool and brisk morning. Dry, the autumn air seeping into the cracks of the window. It doesn't look likely to rain, but Viktor still clutches at his doublet, as if for protection.

Yuuri grins. "Anywhere." He echoes Viktor's words yet again.

_Is he doing this on purpose?_

Viktor nods, a short, sharp thing, and steps out the door.

 

*

There's silence.

They walk in quiet, in contemplative companionship.

Viktor watches his feet on the gravel walkway, and doesn't look up. He doesn't bother to register where they're headed. His body feels a heavy thing to drag along. The weight of his heart is almost becoming too heavy for him to bear.

"You know, I feel bitter." Yuuri confesses, his voice sudden and loud after the quiet.

Viktor glances to him quickly.

"I feel bitter, about other people's achievements." He swallows. "And I don't want to be bitter. I'm not a bitter person." He looks at Viktor, an age of sadness in his eyes. "I don't think I have it in me. I just don't think I'm strong enough, anymore."

Viktor's throat stings, the pain of a million lifetimes, a million understandings. "Yuuri, it doesn't make you a bitter person to feel bitterness." He hisses. "Your achievements aren't swallowed by another person's. They still exist, _you_ still exist."

Yuuri simply shakes his head. "I just don't think I can do it anymore." He says. "I don't think I can keep trying, only to be beaten again, and again, constantly and consistently."

“You don't think I've been beaten?" Viktor asks, incredulous. He stops short, forcing them to come to a halt. "You don't think I have a trail of a million failures behind me? You can't keep _looking_ at them, Yuuri." He says. "You have to look at the successes of your future. You have to open your eyes, and just _see_ them."

Yuuri had closed his eyes for a brief moment, but he opens them now, and he's staring up at Viktor. In the early morning bleakness, the sky grey with the sun not yet risen, Yuuri's face is cast in shadow, but his eyes seem to glow, even when there's no light or shade that they could possibly be reflecting off of.

It's as if his eyes hold their own light within, and it shines through.

"How do you do it?" Yuuri asks. "Knowing there will always be someone better, knowing there will always be bigger achievements than yours?" Yuuri glances up again, and this time his eyes are wet. "You know, I. I care so much, Viktor, I care with everything I have, I. I couldn't care _any more_ , but then it seems that other writers who have just begun, who don't care at all, who haven't felt this - this _longing_ , are achieving bigger and faster than I ever could." He swallows. "And what's the point, then?" He shrugs, a jerk of one shoulder. "Truly. What's the point, to keep caring, and caring? It drains me." Yuuri admits. "I'm drained. And I'm so tired. I'm just so tired."

"The point, Yuuri." Viktor begins, his voice hard. "Is that, no matter how famous other artists or authors become, no matter the abundance of other talent, there will always be a lack of art and literature, because art and literature makes us _feel."_ He says. "And you might have something inside of you that makes somebody feel more than anything ever could. More than _anyone_ else could. Than anything else that _exists_. The world needs your voice, Yuuri. It needs you to bring colour, and life, and _feeling,_ back into it."

Yuuri stares, and then Viktor is being knocked backwards as Yuuri throws himself into Viktor's arms, gripping tight and pressing himself to Viktor's body.

Viktor flushes, immediately stammering as his hands flail and hover over Yuuri's frame, utterly unsure of their welcome. "I - you -"

 _"_ _Thank you."_ Yuuri breathes out, eyes glistening as he pulls back. "Thank you, Viktor. So much."

"I - really didn't say anything, it's simply the truth -"

"You know." Yuuri says, and laughs a wet cough. "You put it in such a way I don't think anyone else could." He smiles, a soft thing. "You have such a way with words. And I'm not bitter about that anymore. In fact, I'm so happy." He grins wide, his eyes still shining.

Viktor feels his cheeks heat, and clears his throat. "Well, I -"

"I read the poems." Yuuri begins, a smile on his face. "And afterwards, I wasn't quite sure what it all meant. But they're a very fortunate person, whoever they're about." Yuuri glances down for a second. "Extremely fortunate." His voice goes rough for a moment, and he clears his throat. "I think I can relate to the sentiment in them." He lifts his head, gives Viktor a bright beam.

Viktor blinks. He blinks a few more times, just to be sure. "Yuuri." He starts. "The poems are about you."

Yuuri simply looks at him for a moment.

And then, wildly, he scoffs. "Viktor." He snorts. "They're not about me."

"Yuuri." Viktor begins, very strongly. "Of course they're about you. I wrote them, I think this gives me some authority over their subject matter."

Yuuri's eyes are wide. "But they - you write so many things -"

Viktor glances away, jaw tight, even as his cheeks are burning. "They are about you, you do not have to analyse them for me."

There's a moment of silence, of nothing. Viktor feels a touch to his cheek, a hand trying to turn his head.

"Viktor." A voice calls, soft. Viktor glances down.

Yuuri is staring up at him, his eyes filled with wonder. He brushes away the hair that perpetually falls over Viktor's forehead, and smiles.

And then he leans up and presses a kiss to Viktor's mouth.

This one is wholly different from their first.

This one is soft, and the way Yuuri presses his mouth to Viktor's bottom lip is tender and devoted, not desperate and pained.

Viktor is stunned, so much so that he does nothing. He simply does nothing.

He stands there, in stiff, frozen shock, as Yuuri kisses him, and then Yuuri pulls back and looks him at him warily.

"I'm sorry." Yuuri begins, embarrassed, until Viktor grips him by the nape of the neck and swoops down.

Now, this kiss is unlike any of their others.

It's forceful, and ragged, and Viktor opens his mouth against Yuuri's to feel his hot breath, his wet slide of lips, and then the contrast of his gentle, tentative brush of tongue. Viktor pulls Yuuri closer, one arm snaking around his waist and pressing their bodies flush. Yuuri makes a noise akin to something of a whimper, and it makes Viktor's breathing speed, his cheeks hot.

They pull away panting and breathless, but Viktor is grinning, and eventually, so is Yuuri.

"I don't know how to hate you." Yuuri murmurs, a soft admission. "I don't think I'm capable of it. I've tried, for _years,_ Viktor Nikiforov." He steps closer, breathing the words across Viktor's face. "But something about you is impossible to hate."

Viktor laughs, although it's throaty. "That's nice to hear." He says, and lifts a hand to Yuuri's jaw, stroking a thumb across his sharp cheekbone.

"I mean it." Yuuri states, and his tone of matter-of-fact. "I would love to find a person in this world who hated you. Hated the man who only ever brings with him joy and happiness."

Viktor's cheeks are burning, the colour heating the lining of his throat, the inside of his mouth. His tongue is a hot coal, unable to speak. He simply stands there, blushing like a schoolboy.

"I. I thought you didn't feel the same." He states, at last, but his voice hoarse. "I. I told you I _loved_ you, Yuuri." Even the memory twists sharp and painful in Viktor's chest.

Yuuri strokes along Viktor's arm, up and into his hair, where it buries there, gripping tight. "I suppose I felt it was a ruse." He whispers, his nose grazing Viktor's. "I couldn't exactly understand why a poet of your calibre would be interested in a lowly writer such as myself."

Viktor blinks, aghast, and pulls away. "A _ruse?_ Whatever for?"

Yuuri shrugs, a timid thing. "You leant me your journal. Maybe you hoped for the same, thought it might persuade me to return the gesture. You did once call me your rival, you know." He smiles, a blush heating his cheeks. "I thought it might've been your way to try and read my work. I. I thought you knew about my growing feelings for you, and were using them against me." Yuuri doesn't meet his eyes.

Viktor is in a state of utter shock. "Why on earth would I ever do that?" _Growing feelings? What growing feelings?_

Yuuri chuckles, the sounds rough. "I'm not entirely sure, anymore. It sounds ridiculous to say aloud." He scratches the nape of his neck. "When left to my own devices, my mind can often come up with some very creative ideas."

"Creative indeed." Viktor exhales, still rendered numb with shock. "So, you - this is why you told me you hated me?" Hope, thick and thorny, blooms in Viktor's chest.

"Oh, _that,_ I firmly believed." Yuuri grins, self-conscious. "Or at least, I told myself I believed it. It made things easier, instead of admitting to myself I was falling in love with another writer. My most feared writer."

"A catastrophe in and of itself." Viktor breathes out, and then laughs, a sharp, short giggle, suddenly feeling lighter than air. He feels breathless, _giddy,_ winded and light-headed with Yuuri's words.

Who knew words could do such a thing? Who knew, after hearing and writing those words so many times - reinventing and recreating them to sound more poetic each and every time - to have the object of all your desire say them to you still renders them wholly new.

It's as if Viktor has never heard the word _love_ before. Never knew it's meaning.

"Yes." Yuuri laughs too, his eyes crinkling as they gaze at Viktor.

"So. These 'growing feelings.'" Viktor begins, raising a brow, and Yuuri blushes a richer shade of red, staining his cheeks.

"Yes, _growing."_ He states."I didn't expect you to turn around and tell me you _loved me,_ of all things." Yuuri laughs, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

"I don't do things by halves, this you should know, Yuuri." Viktor states deeply.

There's a second of complete silence, where Viktor stands straight-faced and Yuuri simply stares, before they're abruptly laughing, leaning into one another and bending slightly with the force of it.

"I don't imagine you do." Yuuri laughs, and wipes his eye. He grins. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

 

*

Viktor shuffles his papers for the third time, and swallows around the tight lump forming in his throat.

He has a reading in the local library of his newly published collection.

Viktor hasn't told Yuuri anything of this, mostly because all of the poems are _about_ said Yuuri.

But more that that, it's still difficult to talk to Yuuri about writing, to share their poetry with one another. He knows they've overcome many things, and yet in the same sense, being a writer brings with it a world of complexities and contradictions.

Viktor feels nothing but pride and joy whenever Yuuri tells him he's written something new, whenever an article is printed by a renowned critic about the brilliance of Yuuri Katsuki's words.

But Viktor's still unsure of Yuuri's feelings. He knows Yuuri is similarly proud, he _sees_ it in Yuuri's eyes, feels it in his embrace, but he also knows Yuuri still battles with the demons that tortured him when they first met.

As he's setting up to get ready to read, Viktor feels those familiar nerves creeping up on him again, tightening his gut and making his palms hot and clammy. He knows Yuuri would smooth hands down his shoulders, a warm presence down the length of his back. _You can do this,_ he would whisper. _I'm right here._

Viktor takes calming breath at the podium and shuffles his papers, blowing it back out, and then he glances up.

He pauses.

A smile is spreading across his face, slow to begin, but gradually gaining confidence. Viktor feels his eyes fold over with the force of it, feels his head fall sideways as his gaze comes to meet the one sitting across from him; the first guest.

He's early.

 

*

> "I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say _'he feels deeply, he feels tenderly'_." -
> 
> Vincent van Gogh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! If you enjoyed, drop a comment, I love them <33

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Any comments or feedback are all very much loved, read and replied to, and I deeply appreciate it.
> 
> I'm also Peasantaries on [Tumblr](https://peasantaries.tumblr.com/), [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/peasantaries), and [ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/peasantaries/)! Come over and talk to me! I'll never bite <33
> 
> If you want to find ways to support me, you can find them there! (*^▽^*)( ﾉ^ω^)ﾉﾟ


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